


Save My Soul

by coconutcluster



Category: Buzzfeed Uns, Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Enjoy!, F/M, M/M, Other, So here we are, i just randomly got the idea for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-04-17 18:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14195118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: After C.C. Tinsley is forcibly removed from the missing Sodder children case by a mysterious figure above him, he finds his way to a dusty (nearly nonexistent) town on the west coast; there he meets a rather charming young man and his, eh, butler, who he soon realizes share his vendetta against a certain 'doctor.' Add to the mix an enigmatic dame who seems to have twelve different names at all times, and you've got yourself a misfit troupe of law-skirting vigilantes. Sounds like a party.





	1. Chapter 1

C.C. Tinsley likes to believe he's a good detective.

He's finding it harder to convince himself of the notion in his current situation.

He stares out the grimy window of the train and tries to block out the pig-like snoring of the elderly man three seats ahead of him, stewing still over the last three hours, the last week, his life. Tinsley isn't usually one to hold a grudge, but that didn't seem to apply after he'd practically been carted away onto a train to the west coast with only the clothes on his back and a cardboard box of what meager belongings he had been able to shove in before the slamming on his apartment door nearly broke the wood. They didn't even let him grab the money.

A child with jam smeared in her bouncy curls cries behind him. He agrees.

What bothers him most is the Sodder family. Tinsley can't help but think of their tear-stained faces as they'd met him in that tiny coffee shop on the street corner, their hopeful smiles as he'd listed off every successful case he'd completed, their hard determination as they'd handed him a bulky manila envelope, heavy with the cost of the investigation. He had imagined their celebration when he'd found their little children a thousand times over.

If he had found their little children.

Which he hadn't.

The man in front of him pulls in another guttural inhale, and it's too much for Tinsley. He stands up, abruptly ending the little girl's cries and her mother's hushed comforts as he stalks past them to the cramped washroom, pulling the door shut behind him with a barely-contained slam. He grips the edges of the shoddy sink and stares into the mirror; his eyes, hazel and round, dark against the amethyst half-moons beneath them; his lips, usually pulled into an easy smile, tight and straight. His sandy hair is more tousled than normal - he suddenly can't recall when he was able to wash it last.

He leans back to the wall and sinks down slowly, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. The bright colors remind him idly of a kaleidoscope. He sits for a minute and lets his mind wander, eased slightly by the constant thump of the train's wheels against the track; _you can do this - you're C.C. Tinsley, god dang it. You'll find those kids. You'll help the Sodders. You'll... you..._

He opens his eyes again and blinks in the harsh lighting.

_You failed them._

 

It had been a day like any other. He'd walked back from his favorite coffee shop - The Marble, a quaint little cafe where Tinsley liked to sort through papers and his own thoughts, when he needed it - to his apartment, a low-rate two-roomer near the river. He'd bounced up the steps to his door, fumbling for his keys and offering waves and smiles to any neighbors he passed on the way. He'd swung the door open, already calling for Meringue, the fluffy white cat who snuck through the fire escape often enough for Tinsley to consider her his own; instead he was met with the door slamming behind him and an arm around his throat.

A growl in his ear. _"Drop the case."_

Tinsley blinked and dropped his worn briefcase.

 _"Funny."_ The arm repositioned around his throat, tighter. _"The Sodders don't need your help. Drop the investigation."_

Tinsley twisted slightly, trying to break free or at least loosen the man's stony grip. _"Well, I believe they wouldn't have asked me if they didn't need my help, now would they?"_

The grip loosened for a split second and transferred to his shoulder as a sharp prick met his neck instead. _"Those children are none of your business. Drop the case before we drop you off a building and let your skull crack on the pavement."_

 _"Oh, that's quite a visual! Are you a writer, sir? You could be a writer. You should look into it, I think it'd do you well."_ The knife pressed harder into his skin; he felt blood trickle down the side and he resisted the urge to swipe it away.

_"This is your first warning."_

The knife remained at his throat until the last second. Tinsley heard the door click open and slam shut again; he whipped around and yanked it open, glancing up and down the hall for any sign of his attacker, to no avail.

That was the first of many similar events.

He had visited the library less than three days later to research the effects of fire on the human body - the firemen had never found enough bones in the residue of the Sodders' house to justify a definite death certificate for the five missing children - when a man pulled him into the alleyway and pointed a gun at his face, uttering the same short warning as the first: drop the case before they made him. Tinsley had backed out of the alley as slowly as possible before sprinting a full three blocks, losing the shadowy figure as fast as he'd found him.

Then the time he had simply left his window open and was greeted with a hasty message carved into his table: _ONe LasT cHaNcE_. He pulled an old blanket over the wood and pushed it from his mind. He would not give up on the Sodders.

Until a final message arrived at his door. Several messages, actually, all banging on his door at once.

They ordered him out of the apartment, giving him just enough time to grab a few things from his desk before they nearly broke the door down. He stepped out and immediately felt a burlap sack pulled over his head, obstructing his vision of his assailants. He was pulled down the stairs and into a car. They drove for what felt like hours, the only noise the click of wheels against the street and the unruly wind against the windows. Then he was yanked out and shoved onto a platform with the slam of a door his only accompaniment. He pulled the sack off his head warily, glancing around; he was on a train. He looked back and found nothing. He was alone.

 

And now he's here, on the floor of a washroom on a train headed west, away from his home, his job, his duties.

Tinsley can't help but feel utterly stupid. He isn't naive - he knew, on some level of his mind, that they would make good on the threats. He just didn't think it would be so soon. He thought he'd have time to give the Sodders even just a semblance of closure. Instead they probably think he took the money and ran. His carelessness hurt both sides in the end.

Except he refuses to believe this is the end, for either of them. Tinsley was set on finding those missing children - now he's set on finding the children and whatever prick is behind this entire mess.

And then the train stops.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley arrives!!!

   As soon as he steps off the train, Tinsley knows he’s in trouble.

   It has to be over a hundred degrees, at the _least_ ; considering Fayetteville only ever got around eighty - and that was the _highest_ last August - and the fact that he’s currently decked out in his favorite trench coat ensemble, vest and all, he’s sweating the minute his foot meets the dusty ground.

   With a grunt and a few pointed glares from the old man, who is surprisingly _not_ a pig incarnate (although both his snores and his nose tells a different story), Tinsley manages to shuffle down the train aisle and up to the ticket booth at the station with both his cardboard box and briefcase in tow. The girl behind the window can’t be more than sixteen years old - her hair is cut in a bob, much too short and curly to make her ponytail effective by any means, and short black tufts poke out in every direction. Freckles dot her tan skin, dark and prominent under the burning glare of the sun, and Tinsley notices they even cover her eyelids.

   He notices this because her eyes are completely closed. And she’s not moving. He thinks, briefly, that she _may_ be dead.

  He taps hesitantly on the scratched window.

  The girl’s eyes fly open and form a scowl immediately, and she offers a plastic smile that lasts less than a second. “Can I help you?”

  Tinsley raises his eyebrows and glances at her nametag: _Here to help!_ He cracks a (only slightly forced) grin. “I sure hope so.”

   She doesn’t laugh. “...Right.” With a glance at his luggage, she rolls her eyes and picks up a notepad and pen from the desk beside her. “You need a ticket for the next train?”

   “I don’t think so.” He glances back at the train, now pulling out of the station. “I think this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.” He knits his brow suddenly, peering over the girl’s shoulder. “Um, where _is_ here, exactly?”

   It’s the girl’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “Arizona. Banjo, Arizona. You’re supposed to be here and you don’t know where you are?”

   “...It’s a long story.” A story he’s unwilling to share, and judging by her face, a story the girl is  completely unwilling to hear. She waves him out of the station and towards the rows of buildings in the slight distance, closing her eyes again as soon as Tinsley turns away.

   The town - if you can call it that - is small. Small, as in, Tinsley can see the end of it from the edge of the train station.

   The entire town.

   He closes his eyes and wills himself to walk forward, to smile, even if it’s just on the outside.

    _Wait, open your eyes. You look like a maniac smiling with your eyes closed._

_...Right._

He has to admit, however, that the town is rather quaint. Dusty, and much more not-West-Virginia than he prefers, but the perfectly cliche western-style buildings draw an idle chuckle from him. He trudges toward the nearest building, trying to raise his hopes for the town he now has to call home.

 

  His hopes for an air conditioner are immediately crushed as he pushes his way into the building labeled, quite simply, _Banjo’s_. In fact, the air is even heavier in the wooden room, which is sparsely decorated with equally wooden tables and chairs. The bar is empty.

  Tinsley walks to a nearby table and sets his things down as gently as possible, glancing around for any sign of human life, or life in general: a dog, maybe, or even a _plant_ , for Christ’s sake, but there’s nothing. _There has to some people here_ , Tinsley assures himself as he walks up to the bar and peeks over the counter - the girl at the train station exists, and though he’s not exactly a scientist, he knows enough about biology to know she has to have parents _somewhere_.

  “What exactly do you think you’re doin’?”

  The voice startles him so much he nearly catapults head-first over the bar; a small woman with deep wrinkles and surprisingly dark hair stands directly behind him, hands on her wide hips - it occurs to Tinsley suddenly that she reminds him of a pumpkin, short and stout and turning a rather alarming shade in the face.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone was here,” he stutters, before quickly straightening and smiling at her. He sticks a hand out. “Private ey- eh, C.C. Tinsley.  Pleasure to meet you!”

 The woman ignores his hand and pushes past him to the gate of the bar. “I’m sure it is, Mr. Private Eh.”

  Tinsley retracts his hand with an undeniable blush. He clears his throat and spins to face her behind the counter. “I’m rather new here, in… Banjo-”

“I gathered.”

  “-Rightio! And I was wondering if maybe you knew anything about getting myself some lodging?” The woman stares evenly at him, gaze flickering to his belongings a few feet away. “Uh, time is slightly of the essence. But no pressure, of course.”

  “Why’re you here, kid?”

  “Oh, this- it was just the first building, I’m sorry-”

  “No, why are you _here_ , in Banjo?” He stares at her blankly, and she raises an eyebrow. “This ain’t exactly a town people move to on their own.”

  “It’s a long story,” he repeats lamely.

  She just shrugs. “I got time.”

  And suddenly he’s sitting at the bar, his shoulders hunched over and his eyes burning with pent-up exhaustion. His story and frustrations spill out before he can stop them: the Sodder case, the dead ends and fake leads, the mysterious messages and their messengers alike, his forceful expulsion from the only home he’d ever known. His voice cracks and breaks completely at that part, his head flowing with memories of his childhood home and apartment alike, of the Marble and it’s charismatic barista who never seemed to leave and who Tinsley had just the _slightest_ crush on, of the view of the river from his bay window, of everything at once, and it’s just a little too much and not nearly enough at the same time.

  By the time he finishes, his head rests on his arm and he’s staring at the countertop like it will solve all his problems if he traces the grainy pattern enough.

  The woman lets out a deep sigh. “Well, you’ll fit right in here, kid.” Tinsley looks up at her, and she offers him a small but overwhelmingly genuine smile. “I’m Madge. Pleased to meet you, C.C. Tinsley.”

  

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I'm sorry this chapter is so short compared to the first one, but I really wanted to get a new update in after the sudden realization that people were actually reading this, which leads to my next topic:  
> Thank you so much for reading this!!! I appreciate every single Kudos and comment so, so much! If you have any tips or critiques (constructive, please), I would absolutely love them!  
> Happy reading!  
> (p.s. you can follow me on tumblr if you'd like, goondis-and-the-plupples. I post a ton of BFU [obviously], so there's that!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ThErE's A cItY iN STORE fOr Y'ALL  
> (I'm so sorry)

  “You can stay here as long as you need,” Madge says, pushing open the sandy wooden door at the end of the hall.

  The second floor of  _ Banjo’s  _ seems to be where Madge lives, Tinsley observes, complete with a tiny bathroom, a bright yellow kitchenette, and closed door he assumes is her bedroom.

  The room she led him to is pale pink - it’s a stark contrast to his cobalt-blue apartment in West Virginia, but he finds that the color soothes his frazzled nerves more than anything else has in the last three days. 

  He follows behind Madge, who looks around as if she hasn’t seen the room in years. She runs her hands idly over the lace cover on the dresser top before glancing at him over her shoulder.

  “It was my son’s, before he moved,” she tells him. She picks up a framed photograph of a herself and a tall boy with dark curls that covered his forehead; they’re both smiling brightly, and Madge smiles back down at the photograph, as if the boy can see it. She gently places it back on the nightstand and continues without another whisper about her son. Tinsley decides not to push it - she was kind enough to offer a place to live, and he isn’t one to test the limits of generosity. 

  Instead, he walks to the bed and places his box and briefcase on the floor beside it; the bed itself is wrapped tightly in a white comforter, and it takes every shred of self control he has not to lay down and sleep for weeks. He turns back to Madge and gives her a genuine smile. “Thank you, Ms… uh-”

  “It’s just Madge, Tinsley.”

  His smile grows. “Well, then call me Charles. Please.”

  She tilts her head at him, her gaze fond, and Tinsley is suddenly reminded of his own mother, back when she fixed his collar every morning before school with a wink and a kiss on the cheek. “Can do, Charles.” Madge glances once more around the room before nodding at him, her eyes clouded with something Tinsley notices but can’t place. “I’ll leave you to settle down, then.” Just before she shuts the door, she offers him another small smile - one he graciously returns. Then she’s gone. 

  As the door shuts, he takes the opportunity to look around the room more closely; directly across from the bed is a window, shrouded in a gauzy purple curtains, looking over the expansive desert and the single black line of train tracks. There’s a desk against the wall beside his seat on the edge of the bed, bare but well-worn, littered with scuff marks and what looks like bright yellow paint, which might have something to do with the kitchen’s happy coat, Tinsley thinks to himself. The walls are mostly bare, although he notices a dark mark in the corner beside the window, close to the floor. With a glance back at the door, Tinsley strides over and kneels down to read the chicken-scratch writing: 

 

~~_ Ethan _ ~~

~~_ Sean _ ~~

~~_ James _ ~~

~~_ Henry _ ~~

_ Oliver _

 

  Tinsley runs his fingertips over the words - they offer no explanation, but he knows they must relate to Madge’s son somehow, unless some other family had lived here before (and he highly doubts that; the town seems relatively new - unpopulated, at the least). He glances up and down the wall, but no other hints reveal themselves among the pink pallor of the room.

  He stands up with creaking knees - long legs have their disadvantages - and instead goes to the closet, humming a tune faintly under his breath (some song he heard in passing and can’t actually remember the words to; no matter, he’s quite the improvisator). He pulls open the door to find empty space, about as much as he expected; Madge’s son didn’t leave much behind, and Tinsley didn’t bring much to fill it up again. 

  He scrunches his mouth to the side at that thought as though he’d eaten a lemon. It’s a rather fitting simile; the memory is still acidic in his mind and mouth alike (although he actually quite likes lemons, but that’s beside both the point and the trope). 

  A moment goes by in silence as thoughts swirl in Tinsley’s head, his gaze trained on nothing in particular, until a movement catches his watchful eye through the window - a man, shorter than Tinsley but just as wiry (Tinsley is always ready to describe himself as  _ lean _ , but most people just go with  _ lanky  _ or  _ clumsy _ \- anyway), following a small retriever that bounds down the street. The man wears round tortoise-shell glasses, and has on a thin sweater despite the weather. His slow, carefree gait past the wooden buildings reminds Tinsley of the next item on his agenda - explore the town. He hopes, nearly prays - and C.C. Tinsley is scarcely a religious man, only on holidays - that it’s more engaging than its muted facade. 

  He sweeps out of his new room, which he hopes (just as much as he doesn’t) is permanent, and down the delightfully crickety steps (delightful in that they remind him of a homely cottage somewhere on the east coast, housing he’s always hoped to obtain - but enough of that now), into the dining area where Madge wipes down the bar counter. She looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

  “Situated already?” she quips, placing a hand decisively on her hip. All of her movements seem deliberate, almost constantly predicted to Tinsley - it wouldn’t surprise him if she greeted the Grim Reaper with a three course dinner and a list of negotiations upon her judgement day. 

  He grins again, and to his delight, it’s slightly less forced than before. “Indeed! I must thank you again for the room - it’s quite lovely and most definitely my favorite impromptu lodging to date-” Madge raises her eyebrows even further and Tinsley nods his head in acquiescence, “eh, my  _ only  _ impromptu lodging to date, but my favorite nonetheless!” Madge cracks a tiny smile at that, and he continues with his hands splayed in front of him. “But I do have a question for you, Grand Madge of Banjo, Arizona.”

  She snickers. “You do?”

  “I do, indeedie - I’m in great need of a better understanding of my new  _ home _ -” He can’t help the pronounced crack in his voice, but he continues as quickly as he paused, “And I must know which establishment I should explore first!” He plants his elbows on a dry spot of the bar. “So what do you suggest?”

  Madge stares at him, and though he’s the detective- er,  _ was _ the detective? No, no, he will keep his title if nothing else - he feels her stormy grey eyes see into his hazel greens much deeper than he anticipated. “Mmhmm.” She sets her sopping rag down onto the counter with a sigh and looks up at him again with almost reluctant thought displayed on her face. “Well, you might be interested in the shop. It’s next door, and it’s got an…  _ arrangement _ , I suppose, of things that might interest a character such as yourself.”

  “Perfect!” Tinsley claps his hands together, looking to the doors. He notices the sun beams dancing across the wooden floor and glances down at his trench coat. It’s his favorite - his  _ only _ , he corrects again - and though he’s reluctant to shed it, he convinces himself that it will still be here when he returns, and  _ he  _ might not be if he collapses from heat stroke; the trench coat must stay for now. 

 

  Just as he expected, the air outside is still heavy and overbearing, and he knows it was an unequivocally smart decision it was to leave his beloved coat behind. Even his button-up, with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, creates a layer of sweat on his skin under the unforgiving sun, and he wishes he never cursed the snow in West Virginia. It strikes him that he may never see snow again. Will he? How often does it snow in Arizona? He makes a mental note, among the mess in his head, to ask Madge of the yearly climate here. 

  He nearly runs into the door of the shop - it’s flung open quite suddenly, in his defense, but the word  _ clumsy  _ does jump back into his head with startling enthusiasm. 

  “Oh my  _ stars _ , honey, are you okay?”

  He backs up, away from the oak plank in his face, and looks around its edge to find a bird-like lady with brown-black curls piled on top of her head - her features are so distinctive, big eyes and round-tipped nose, he knows immediately that he’s found the train-station-attendee’s mother. Or sister, he supposes. 

  ...Probably mom. He notices that she’s a tad old. 

  Respectfully, of course.

  “Oh,” he says upon realizing she’s staring at him with wide eyes and pursed lips. “Uh, right, no, you’re fine. I wasn’t paying attention, my bad.” 

  She just nods quickly before smiling with blinding optimism at him. “You must be the newcomer Minnie told us about! Come in, look around, please!”

  He quirks an eyebrow at her, mouthing  _ Minnie _ to himself as she turns and gestures him into the shop-  _ oh, that’s… that’s train-station-attendee. Huh.  _ Her mother and her name present a marginally different image in his head than the girl herself, but he’s not one to make judgements so soon. (He is most definitely one to make judgements as soon as seeing something, it was practically the first step in his job, but he won’t admit that now). 

  The shop makes his eyes grow wide as soon as he steps through the door, and all his composure escapes into the muggy air. 

  The walls are lined with trinkets of all kinds - clocks, boxes of all shapes and sizes, dinged jewelry, squares of colorful cloth, ambiguous knick-knacks (is it a cow or a lotus? Tinsley doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care in the slightest). It’s absolutely  _ wonderful _ .

  His amazement must show clearly on his face, because Minnie’s-Probably-Mom laughs, a lilting, almost bell-like sound that carries through the store. “I take it you like bibelots, then?”

  He can only nod as his eyes travel over every piece of merchandise on the shelves. There’s a reason his apartment always needed tidying in one area or another; he had no qualms about splurging every so often (read: every other day) on a small ornament for his bookshelves - investigative documents and scribbly notes got tedious to look at all the time, and it always brightened his day to see a small elephant on his desk or glittering statuette on his windowsill.

  “Well,” Minnie’s-Mom says slowly, glancing around. “Would you like something? On the house of course, for almost knocking you on your backside.” She blinks and laughs suddenly. “Oh, what a horrible first impression of us that must have been!”

  “ _ What _ did you do now, Frankie?” a cheerful voice calls out from behind the counter; Tinsley turns and sees a husky man with the facial hair of a rather gifted lumberjack and the smile of… well, a rather gifted lumberjack - the ones on the calendars, of course, are Tinsley’s only basis for the comparison, but he imagines being chosen to represent a lumberjack on a calendar must be a rather gifted lifestyle, so it all fits quite well in his mind.

  “Oh, is this a new face I spot?” the man continues, his smile brightening. “Hello there! You must be the new-”

  “He is, Garrett, I’ve already said so,” Minnie’s-Mom- uh, Frankie, says, smiling again at Tinsley. “This is Garrett, sweetheart, he’s quite the goof.” Garrett and Tinsley both wait with raised eyebrows. “Oh, and my husband.”

  “Some pause, Francis,” Garrett comments with a chuckle. “What exactly did Frankie do that she’s offering a free picking?” he asks Tinsley, whose gaze is still pulled away by the trinket emporium around him. Garrett watches him for a second before laughing again - loud and hearty, a rather pleasing sound and drastic contrast to his wife’s tinkling giggle. 

  “Leave the poor boy alone, jeezums, he just  _ got  _ here.” Frankie swats her husband’s arm lightly and he raises his hands in the air. 

  “Alright, alright,” he concedes. He gestures broadly to the shop. “Pick something out-” He pauses, squinting. “I don’t believe we’ve caught your name, sir!”

  Tinsley finally manages to put use to his vocal chords, “Oh, my, you’re right - C.C. Tinsley, new resident of your lovely town and, might I say it,” he looks around with wide eyes, “an enthusiastic fan of your establishment already.”

   “Well, pleasure to meet you, C.C. Tinsley. Go ahead and grab a ‘knack, on us.” He winks at Frankie, who hits his arm again. 

   Tinsley doesn’t need another invitation and sets to browsing the shelves, hands hovering over every item. He registers a conversation behind the counter between the couple, and he knows it’s open for him to join, but he’s just a  _ tad  _ distracted.

   “Where are you staying, dear?” he hears as he spots a little synthetic succulent on the top shelf, and he glances over his shoulder to see both Garrett and Frankie looking at him expectantly. 

   “Oh,” he starts, reaching up to grab the plant - it’s situated in a quaint glass case with twine tied to the top to hang it up, and he’s infatuated with it immediately, “The bar and restaurant next door. Madge, she’s allowing me the room down the hall for now-” He nearly drops the succulent and scrambles to save it before continuing. “I was quite worried, of course, where I would stay, but-”

  Frankie snorts and Tinsley’s gaze snaps to the couple, his succulent cradled in his arms. Garrett nudges Frankie with his elbow ever so slightly, his face carefully blank, but Tinsley has already noticed. “What?”

  Frankie straightens suddenly, her sweet peaches-and-cream face scrunched with distaste. “Oh, nothing dear. Just a town… er, rumor, I guess.”

  “Rumor?”

  Her eyes flicker to the door before she leans forward on the desk. “Apparently - and this according to Odette, of course, she’s always the first to know things ‘round here - a man who arrived about a week ago, and Minnie told us he did arrive so that’s a  _ definite _ , he took the top house, just  _ waltzed  _ in! Can you believe it, dear?”

  Garrett frowns. “Now, Franks, we don’t know that for sure. We can’t believe a rumor simply because it’s been shared.”

   “The top house?” Tinsley repeats, stepping up to the desk with plain intrigue. 

   Frankie blinks. “Oh, of course! You don’t know!” She lightly smacks her forehead with an open palm. “My, what a mind I have these days, everything in one ear and out the other! Yes, the top house above the town hall at the end of the road, where the mayor lives- er, lived? Perhaps? I’m not sure, dear, but this man just waltzed in and took it, right from the mayor!” Garrett nudges her again. “Probably.”

  Tinsley glances out the window - he can just barely see the edge of the building at the end of the road, and he admits to himself that it’s quite a bit taller and more intricate than any other in the town. “Huh,” he mutters expressively, mostly to himself.

  Frankie smacks her hands on the counter and Tinsley jumps back in surprise. “Well, thank you for visitin’ our shop, Tinsley dear! Sorry for the door-whackin - hopefully it won’t deter you from comin’ around again.” She gives him a wink and he takes it as his cue to leave. He gives a grateful nod to both shopkeepers, still holding his new plant in the crook of his elbow, and strides out of the shop, careful to avoid the edge of the door. 

  Just before he makes it back into  _ Banjo’s _ , he takes a look back at the town hall.

  The windows are dark, save for a single light at the very top of the building. It’s too bright outside for Tinsley to see any shadows beyond the curtain, but his interest is piqued.

  He starts to think that maybe,  _ maybe _ , this town has something in store just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I just wanted to say thank you so much for every kudos and comment thus far!!!  
> Also, wayyyy longer chapter this time because I've spent about a week on this chapter, and planning ahead for the story in general. Imma try to update every Thursday or Friday night (EST), so be on the lookout!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The top house doesn't escape Tinsley, and he finds someone to aid his curiosity.

  The ceiling has exactly thirty-two cracks.

  They’re small, of course, the faint results of time’s beatings; some are barely visible at first glance, but Tinsley is far past his first glance by now - so far past, he thinks upon his return to reality, that the ceiling probably reflects the dilated vessels in his bloodshot eyes by now, simply a discolored parallel.

  Two hours have passed since his visit to the trinket shop, and he’s done absolutely nothing productive in that time (although, if you ask him, _productivity is a completely subjective concept, and can only be measured by oneself_ \- a rather nifty phrase that had gotten him a rent extension more times than he’d care to admit). He’d hung up his plant - which he named Matilda because it just _seems_ like one - as soon as he’d returned, and with every glance at its frosty green tips he’s reminded of Madge’s amused grin as he’d stumbled through the door to the bar.

   _“I thought you’d like the shop,”_ she’d said, raising an eyebrow at the plant. He’d only flashed her a grateful smile and climbed the stairs to his room, hanging Matilda up above the desk and collapsing onto the bed.

  And, as his mind confines him to it, he’s still lying on the bed with the immaculate sheet position left untouched, well aware of the sun’s tired setting and the sky’s colorful homage to its leave.

  He can’t stop thinking about the top house.

  The way Frankie phrased it and Garrett reacted, he knows something’s missing from his borrowed version of the story. He just doesn’t know _what_ ; C.C. Tinsley is not a man who enjoys not knowing things. Perhaps it’s an effect from his years as a detective, or perhaps it was the force that drove him to become a private eye in the first place - either way, whoever invented the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’ is an idiot in his book and he’s not hesitant to scold whoever dares recite it at him.

  So, for the last two hours, he’s faced the ceiling and gone over every possibility that had crossed his mind concerning the man in the top house. Is he a crooked politician, searching for a city of his own to run? Maybe a vigilante, ready to fix a town that’s fallen somehow? (Given, the town doesn’t _seem_ very fallen, but you never know.)

  And then there’s the theory Tinsley had run his tongue over the most - the man is an outlaw, plain and simple, full of greed and a hunger for power. It’s plausible to the detective, and he quite enjoys the possibility; the town is quaint, he’ll admit as much, but _quaint_ doesn’t satisfy his need for adventure, his yearn to be back in the field after only four days away from it. A criminal, on the other hand… that’s research, that’s a plan, _that’s_ adventure.

  Admittedly domestic adventure, but beggars can’t be choosers, and he is very much a beggar right now.

  He goes over his conversation with Frankie for thirtieth time, straining to remember every detail. He has a wonderful memory when it comes to visuals - he can recall book passages from fourth grade and remembers the last drop of paint in a piece from a museum that no longer exists - but auditory exchanges are not his forte.

   _He waltzed in…_ His eyes trace the ceiling’s imperfections again, looking for answers in their serpentine paths.

   _Last week…_ The room is warm, and he idly remembers his trench coat, still draped over the desk chair.

   _The top house…_ He wonders randomly where Madge got the yellow paint for the kitchen. He rather likes the pastel palette of her house.

_According to Odette-_

Tinsley sits up so quickly his spine feels tight, but he’s up and out of his room before he notices it.

   _Odette!_ he revels to himself as he flies down the stairs for the second time today; Frankie mentioned a girl named Odette, the girl who gave them all the information about this mysterious house thief, and _anyone_ with information is automatically Tinsley’s best friend.

  “Madge!” he calls  as he swings open the door to the bar - quite loudly, but he rarely notices volume in times like these.

  Madge is sitting at one of the tables in the restaurant portion of the room with her back to Tinsley; he can just barely see her tracing something on the table as he walks up, but she puts it away before he can see exactly what it is. Her shoulders rise with a deep breath before turning to him. “Whaddya need, kiddo?”

  He hesitates - whether it’s due to the subtly-exhausted look in Madge’s eyes or her new nickname for him, he doesn’t know, but he forges ahead regardless with his inquisitive smile. “Do you, perchance, know a madam in this oh-so-lovely town by the name of Odette?”

  Madge stares at him for a second with her eyebrows drawn, something she seems to do a lot, and finally says, “She runs the library down the street.”

  Tinsley blinks, admittedly taken aback. “You all have a _library_?” Madge raises her eyebrows and actually smiles, a sharp exhale escaping from her nose.

  “We’re not _cavemen_ , Charles,” she laughs, a much more raucous sound than Garrett’s or Frannie’s; she even snorts, her eyes crinkling up at the corners.

  Being called by his first name for the first time since he was in high school and laughed at with such joy at the same time makes his mouth quirk into a half-smile before he can stop it. “Yes, I suppose- I suppose that was a rather odd assumption on my part, my apologies- Madge- stop laughing at me!” But he’s laughing along with her, so hard he has to sit down after a second because he’s lost his breath. He lays his head on the tabletop, his shoulders shaking, his troubles and queries gone for one peaceful minute.

  Finally he manages a few deep inhales and smiles at Madge, whose eyes are still bright with a shining joy he’s seeing for the first time since arriving (given, that’s only about a seven-hour timespan, but it’s still a comforting sight). “Well, thank you, Grand Madge of Banjo,” he says, standing up only semi-reluctantly. He lifts an arm into the air dramatically. “I shall return within the hour. To the library!” He gives a nod of his head, which she returns with one more tiny laugh, and waltzes out the door.

  The air outside has actually cooled, and Tinsley stops right outside the door in surprise. There’s a slight breeze that tousles his sandy hair and grazes his skin with gentle ease as if in apology for the afternoon weather. He takes a deep breath, and he realizes with a start how tired he is; there had been quite a bit of excitement - if you could call it that - throughout the short day, and he felt it in the slight weight of his eyelids.

  _Now is no time for fatigue!_ he chides silently, taking another deep breath and turning to the rest of the town.

  In both his hurry and self-pity from earlier in the day, he had failed to notice the eccentricities of the town itself - each buildings’ facade seems to be made from a different wood, and Tinsley can’t tell if it’s a deliberate design choice or the outcome of guerilla construction. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes; he actually quite likes it. It’s spontaneous, in its own odd fashion, and it gives him something to concentrate on other than the fact that he has _no idea where he’s going._

The buildings are different, yes, but none of them have signs except _Banjo’s_ and what appears to be a motel further down that… is also called _Banjo’s_.

   _Well_ , Tinsley huffs to himself, _that is the absolute_ opposite _of helpful._

  Madge said the library was down the road, and there’s really only one direction from _Banjo’s_ (the restaurant, that is), which he supposes constitutes itself as ‘down’ in relation to the rest of the establishments, but it presents a rather embarrassing predicament for Tinsley.

  He has no issues with questions, of course - he’s a detective, for God’s sake, but he doesn’t want to prove himself a dunce in his first possible run-in with the rest of the townspeople.

  He takes yet another breath and starts down the road, glancing curiously through every window he passes: the loaded shelves of the shop, a building with a desk and single potted cactus in view, the odd motel with a rather nice painting above a dark counter, a few tiny buildings that he assumes are houses with more gauzy curtains covering his inquisitive gaze, but no books in sight. No library.

  He’s thankful for the breezy atmosphere at the moment - if he’d had to complete this quest in the heat, he honestly might go insane.

   After five minutes of peeking through windows only a single building remains at the end of the street, dangerously and exhilaratingly close to the mysterious top house, and Tinsley sincerely hopes he didn’t miss the library and is about to stroll into a completely random business. He stares at the door with a split second of hesitation and reaches for the doorknob.

  It’s open, thankfully, and it gives him the confidence boost he needed to push it open with a warm smile on his face as he looks around as quickly as possible, scanning the room.

  He appears to have found the library, thank _God_ , and it’s absolutely his new favorite building.

  Books have always been a preferred escape for him - whether it be during high school, away from the constant reminders of his parents breathing down his neck, or during a particularly gruesome case in Fayetteville - and seeing their weathered spines makes his pulse slow and his shoulders fall. The walls are a warm brown that reminds Tinsley of coffee.

  He clears his throat. “Hello?” There’s no answer, so he takes a tentative step into the room. “Hellooooo?” Still no answer. The air in the library is light with the scent of old paper and cinnamon, and despite the warm weather, it envelopes him like a hug and makes him want to stay forever.

  He strides up to the first shelf and examines the spines, dragging his fingertips lightly over the cracked leather as if they’re precious artifacts from a lost culture, his eyes wide and attentive and committed to taking in every detail he can - his gaze shifts from the almost _shiny_ wooden floor to the dustless shelves and books organized by color.

  “Oh, hello there.”

  He glances back, over his shoulder, and finds a girl with round wire-frame glasses and long, frizzy black corkscrew-curls pulled into low pigtails. She gives him a lopsided smile, a single dimple whittled into her cocoa complexion. “Well, I’ll be darned. You must be the new detective in town.”

 Before he can ask how she knows that - Madge is the only one he’d said anything to about being a private eye - she sticks out her hand, a slightly sporadic movement that’s either nerves or excitement making themselves known to both of them.

  Tinsley glances down at her hand and smiles, bringing his own up to shake it. “That I am. You’re Odette, I’d assume?”

  “I am!” She brightens even further and pushes her glasses up her snub nose. “How’s my name been thrown around that a newbie’s heard it already?” Her voice is bright and low, a playful and fruity lilt in and of itself. Tinsley likes her immediately.

  “Well, I heard from a very nice couple down the road that you may have given them information on a man now in the top house?” He recalls Garrett’s hesitation, “Probably.”

  Odette leans one elbow onto a counter nearby, raising an eyebrow. “Frankie ratted me out so soon?” Tinsley chuckles as she shakes her head. “No loyalty with that woman, I’ll tell ya.” She straightens out again and eyes him with a bright grin, squinting through her glasses with an air of knowing. “I suppose you’d like the intel, too, then?”

  He nods fervently, his eyebrows shooting up. “Unabashedly so, and I need it rather soon, I’m afraid.”

  “Why’s that?” she snickers as she makes her way behind the desk (which is nearly up to her waist, she’s so small), “You plannin’ on breakin’ in or somethin’?” Tinsley just stares at her and she pauses behind the desk, frowning slightly. “Oh, you’re… that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it.”

  He nods again, but he leans forward until he’s practically on the countertop before she can speak. “Please understand that I’m dedicated to finding the truth, dearest Odette, and I need to get in that house to achieve that. It’s not for selfish purposes - not mostly - and if I can help this town or whoever was in that top house before, I’ll do it. Can you give me what you know, with my greatest pleas in mind?”

  Her face goes blank for a full thirty seconds - Tinsley counts - before she breaks into an even bigger smile than before. “You know what, Mr. Detective Man? I think you and I will get along real well.”

  


 Tinsley’s affinity for the librarian - who can’t be older than twenty, with her bird-like frame and youthful mannerisms, like hopping onto the desktop as she recounted the entire story of her meeting with Frannie the afternoon before to spill the details on her ‘latest find’ - only grows as he notices her outfit (a striped t-shirt and slightly worn overalls, whose pocket is covered in patches) and her superb ability to brew blueberry tea.

  Odette sits them down in a corner of the library that seems cleared for the very purpose of conversation: two armchairs, admittedly frayed and worn down in certain spots but comfortable nevertheless, pointed toward each other with a small nightstand in between, complete with a tiny glass bowls of obscure candies wrapped in colorful crinkly plastic.

  He sinks down into his chair - the one with the blue and cream-colored stripes - and sips his tea as Odette starts.

  “I was at the counter a couple days ago, rereading this one book I adore, it’s a Federova novel, you should borrow it sometime, and I glanced out the window to see this man I’d never seen ‘round town before, so immediately I get up, right?

 “And I’m looking out my window - it’s on the side here, can’t see it ‘less you’re lookin’,” Tinsley snorts, “and I watch him saunter - and believe me, saunter is the _word_ for his walk, Tinsley, he’s so… so _into_ it, like walkin’ is his destiny, he’s that proud in his footsteps, I swear it - and he saunters up to the Hall like he _owns_ the place!

 “Well, I nearly fell outta my shoes when he pulled open those doors, he looked ready to wear a crown on his head and call himself George!”

  She sips her tea decisively, her eyebrows raised as she gauges his reaction over the rim of her mint-green mug. He sets his own cup down ploddingly. His eyebrows furrow and his gaze rests on a spot of wood a few feet away.

  “And you’ve no idea who he is?” he asks her; she sets her mug down, too, and tilts her head.

  “ _Well_ , I may have heard from my good friend at the train station that it’s somethin’ along the lines of Richard? Or Ricardo. His name, of course.” She sighs, a stray curl flying up with her breath. “I don’t have _nearly_ as many details as I’d like, trust me.”

  “You can say that again,” Tinsley mutters, tapping the tips of his fingers to his thumb as he concentrates on the details. “You haven’t seen him come out yet?”

  She shakes her head. “Not a peep, Tinsley. Not a glance.”

  “How odd.” He looks up at the window and towards the Hall - the doors are shut, and the lights are still off. “And _who_ is it that was in the house beforehand? Do you believe they’re in danger?”

  “Oh, uhm…” Odette’s nose scrunches up. “The mayor, he lives there- and danger? …Not exactly, no.”

  He waits for her to continue but she just snickers to herself. He takes another sip of his tea. “Is there anything specific I should know about the house? Guards, security?”

  Odette actually laughs at that, lets out a shout of amusement, and Tinsley flinches back, it’s so sudden. “In _this_ town? Tinsley, darlin’, you _seen_ this place? We barely afford locks for the houses here!” Tinsley raises his eyebrows and she shakes her head, still laughing to herself. “No, no, no guards. You’re a free man in there.” He starts to nod, but she adds quickly, “Which means this other guy is, too.”

  Tinsley ponders that for a second - it’s true, Odette said the mayor wasn’t in danger, but he supposes this man could still be _dangerous_. He stands up with a sigh and one last downer of his tea. “Well, I must thank you, Odette, for both the help and the company!” She smiles and he nods towards the books. “I’ll be sure to come grab that Federova novel sometime.” She gives him an overdramatic salute that he returns, and he weaves his way past stray stacks of books and small desks with lamps sitting precariously on their narrow tops, out into the street.

  Right in front of the top house.

  It really is rather nice - some kind of limestone, smooth and slightly dusty, and the doors are made of a dark wood heavier than the buildings in the town.

 Tinsley goes up to the Hall and places a hand on the dinged brass handle - it’s surprisingly cold against his palm - and pulls. Odette is right; it’s unlocked and swings open easily. He wastes no time or bravado in stepping through.

The Hall itself is less impressive than its outside. A wooden desk, a small potted plant that’s either real and very dead or very melted plastic, a piece of art that Tinsley gives the benefit of the doubt and considers classical abstract, and a handmade sign that declares the building the town hall. And precinct. And a doctor’s office. And a bank.

  He looks around the lobby for any people - specifically, the mayor or this Ricardo/Richard stranger - but it’s eerily quiet, and the room’s emptiness seems to amplify his breathing as if trying to prove a harsh critique to him. He sucks in a puff of air through his nose; his sinuses burn from the chill it carries. He takes another step into the Hall.

  The door falls shut behind him with a small breeze that nudges him forward, towards the desk, which rests against the back wall of the room. He peeks over the edge; it’s empty save for a small book with a worn leather cover which, upon looking through its contents, he finds completely empty and sets back down with an aggravated huff, turning instead to the doorway that leads to a brief hallway. It’s a cool cream color and the walls are relatively clean, but Tinsley notices a set of faint, grimy marks on the left side, long and smudged, like fingertips dragged across its surface.

  The hall leads to a bathroom on one side - Tinsley does realize with a start that he needs to pee, but that can wait - and a heavy wooden staircase on the other; he cranes his neck in vain to see up its winding steps. He puts a foot tentatively on the first block. It lets out a halfhearted whine, cacophonic but quiet enough to encourage Tinsley’s next step, and the one after, until he’s at the top and facing a plain white door with a dull gold handle.

  He puts an ear to the door; he hears a small shuffle and his heart jumps, and he can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement. He turns the handle, slow enough that it complies without a sound or protest, and pushes the door open.

  The first things he sees are the pristine white walls and tall ceiling; they’re surprisingly dustless for the level of pure _dirt_ in this town.

  The next thing is the he notices is the large painting of a woman in plain robes and golden jewelry in her hair, a small lamb on the table beside her and a veil swaying behind her head.

  The last thing he notices is a thin man on his knees in the kitchenette with unruly brown locks and a token butler’s uniform: a white button down shirt, black vest, and pressed black slacks. He’s muttering so loudly to himself that Tinley doubts he even heard the detective’s entrance.

   “Friggin' everywhere on God's green earth- eesh, what is this, coffee? _I_ don’t drink this, so he won’t either. S’mine anyway, whole god dam-”

   “Excuse me?”

   The man turns around so quickly that Tinsley fears for his spinal cord; his round brown eyes are narrowed and he looks purely… inconvenienced, to be honest. He has an almost comically cliche gunslinger mustache, one that looks quite obviously fake to Tinsley. “What in the name of the good God- are you here for my house, too? What is with you newcomers that you think you can _do_ that?" He wipes his palms on his slacks, lifting his chin at Tinsley. "Well, I’ll tell you what, mister, you can’t even have this house! It’s already _been_ stolen!” He crosses his arms with a smug smile.

  Tinsley blinks. “I’m not here to steal your house, sir.”

  The man frowns. “Oh. Well then. We’re closed.”

  “I’m not here for business, either, sir.”

  “Well what _do_ you want?!” The man grabs onto the counter near him and hauls himself up, leaving a mess of coffee grounds on the floor beside his feet. Tinsley raises his eyebrows.

  “I came to ask about a man who visited you a few days ago." Tinsley looks around the house and back at the man with a raised eyebrow, trying to connect the dots. "Are you… you’re the mayor?”

  The man pauses at that, his eyes unfocused and jaw slack as he squints at the air. “I suppose.” He shifts his squint to Tinsley again. “How did you get up here?”

  “...The doors are unlocked.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Huh.”

  “Did you not know your doors were unlocked?”

  The man pouts his lower lip. “We’re about unity and community here, mister. I suppose unlocked doors are for the citizens to see that I’m always open!”

  “You just said you were closed.”

  “Well, that was when I thought you were stealing my house, now, wasn’t it?”

  Tinsley eyes him carefully. Odette was right - he definitely doesn’t seem in danger. “I suppose you’re right.” He straightens up and smiles at the stranger. “C.C. Tinsley, Mister Mayor, at your service." The mayor stares at him. Tinsley waits for a response, his smile faltering when the man’s gaze just narrows again. "Mister Mayor?" It takes him a second to realize he’s looking over Tinsley’s shoulder.

   “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

      


  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M REALLY SORRY THIS IS A DAY LATE. I had a super busy week and wasn't able to work on this chapter until Thursday afternoon!!!  
> I hope you liked this chapter - Odette's my favorite character I've written so far, and her personality was a very quick switch from what I had in mind when I planned her, but I love her!  
> Also, the art mentioned in the top house is real, if you want to see it: http://blog.clarkart.edu/2012/03/12/the-lost-art-project-alonso-canos-st-agnes/  
> As always, thank you for reading (and being patient!!!)!!!!!!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley meets the owner of the house - if you can call him that.

  “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

  Tinsley whips around so fast that he’s disappointed he had to leave his trench coat with Madge - it would have looked so  _ cool _ , curse this arid hellhole - and faces the unexpected guest (well, he supposes he himself is the guest, but nevermind that now). That is, he means to face him.

  He… looks down.

  Ah.

  The man is rather short - now, that is in comparison  with Tinsley’s own height, and Tinsley is by no means  _ small _ , so it’s quite often that people are below eye level for him, but in his current situation, it does lessen the blow - though not by much.

  The blow is, of course, the man himself.

  He leans against the doorway with a limber grace; his shoulder is pressed easily to the wood, and he has such  _ convictive  _ footing, as if he’s never left the house and is as sure of its floorboards as his own mind. The suit is a tad odd - a full three-piece, black and fitted surprisingly well for the town’s seemingly limited resources - complete with a prim, silken bowtie snug across his throat. 

  And his  _ face _ . His skin is tawny, golden against the pristine white walls of the house, and his slicked-back hair matches the inky blackness of his eyes. His lips are pulled into an easy smirk - Tinsley can see one dimple, giving him a lopsided charm on first sight.

  Tinsley short circuits for a second.  

  The man raises his eyebrows at his silence. “Talkative, I see.” His smile grows and he pushes off the doorway, stepping up to Tinsley until there’s less than inch between them - he’s taller than Tinsley thought, just at his chin - and looks up through feathery eyelashes that are much too long to be fair. “Or is someone flustered?”

  He can’t ignore the heat on his face, creeping up his neck like ivy as he stares down at the intruder. 

  Tinsley clears his throat suddenly, loudly, and takes a step back, bracing himself on the marble island in the small kitchen area. He takes a deep breath and says, “Hi, hello- you... must be Ricardo Goldsworth.”

  The man laughs, a small exhale and a shudder of his shoulders, his smirk never falling. “Who told you that?” he asks, his gaze flickering from Tinsley’s head to his shoes. Tinsley shuffles again, pulling himself to his full height and forcing his face into a careful frown; the man raises an eyebrow. “You’re not wrong, I’m just curious.” He smiles again, a sharp thing compared to his effortless simper. “I prefer to go by Ricky.”

  “Well, isn’t that diddle-darn amazin’,” the mayor snaps. Tinsley nearly jumps - his voice is closer than he expected, as he’d nearly forgotten the man’s presence in the room. “Now will you please get on with whatever it is you’re to do and go somewhere? Preferably not here, thank you very much.”

  Ricky’s smile melts as his eyes land on the mayor, with his pressed coffee-ground-covered slacks and a dusty rag in his hand. “I see you found the uniform.” He hums to himself, studying the kitchen floor. “Get this cleaned up, will you?”

  Tinsley looks between them -  _ uniform _ ? “I’m sorry, why would he do that?” Both pairs of eyes meet his, dubious and unimpressed. “I believe he has a town to run, Mr… Goldsworth.”

   And Ricky’s smirk is back, along with twinkle hidden in his dark eyes. “Ricky,” he corrects. He tilts his head, studying Tinsley’s outfit with voracious scrutiny. “I don’t believe I’ve caught your name.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve thrown it.” Normally, Tinsley would have given his name and half his biography by now, but something about Ricky builds walls around him. He swallows as Ricky stops, eyeing him carefully, his hands paused near his bowtie. “It’s Tinsley.”

  “Just Tinsley? No first name, nothing?” 

  Tinsley frowns. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “No,” Ricky chuckles. “No disappointment, just wondering.” He runs a hand over his hair and waltzes past Tinsley, towards the small, faded loveseat against the back wall, just beside the painting of the woman with the lamb. “And what are you here for, Just-Tinsley?”

  “I hear you’ve stolen a house.”

  Ricky pauses again with another small laugh. “Really? That’s an awfully bold statement to make after knowing someone for only,” he checks a sparkling silver watch on his wrist, “three minutes.” He drapes himself onto the loveseat with raised eyebrows at the detective. “What grounds do you stand on for it, exactly?”

  Tinsley glances around the room, turning to the mayor behind him. “Mister Mayor, sir, whose house is this?”

  “Well-” the mayor starts before cutting off. Tinsley looks over his shoulder at Ricky, whose face has transformed into a dark scowl, his eyebrows low over his eyes, his mouth taut as he stares at the mayor. The mayor clears his throat. “Ishshus.”

  Tinsley watches with raised eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

  The mayor stares at his feet until Ricky coughs. “It’s his.”

  “I- what?” Tinsley frowns as the mayor shuffles in his spot. “You-” He shakes his head and spins on Ricky. “ _ You _ , you stole this house. I have multiple sources, not just the mayor, Mr.  _ Goldsworth _ .”

  “Do you now?” Ricky deadpans. “And who are you to strut in this town and gather evidence against me so quickly?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  Ricky’s charming demeanor has all but disappeared completely as he stands again, striding up to Tinsley without hesitation. “Let me guess something then, mister private-eye, and you tell me if I’m right: you  _ were _ a detective.” His eyes flicker down to Tinsley’s throat as he swallows again, before meeting his gaze with a sardonic twinkle. “And now you’re here.”

  Tinsley stares down at him. 

  C.C. Tinsley is not a violent person. He often looks for the most peaceful solution to an issue, because he firmly believes that violence only means to more violence, and that rarely leads to anything beneficial. Sure, it can be necessary, but only as a last resort.

  So it’s a tad disconcerting that he wants to punch Ricky Goldsworth directly in the face.

  “As much as I’ve enjoyed your company, I’m afraid I have some business to attend to,” Ricky grins. “Please be sure to close the door on your way out.” 

  Tinsley abstains from his urge to knock the smirk off Ricky’s admittedly handsome face and turns on his heel, striding to the door as gracefully as he can manage. He mutters a tight, “Mister Mayor,” to the meek man as he passes.

Just before he leaves, Ricky calls out:

  “Was it the librarian girl?”

  Tinsley looks back at him, a crease between his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “Was she the one who informed you this house isn’t mine?” He’s practically gloating, but his tone is too flat for Tinsley to brush the question off.

  “No,” he finally lands on, gripping the doorknob tighter; it’s warm now, or perhaps his hand is sweatier than when he arrived. Either way, it sends a tingle to his tips of his fingers. “She’s not the one.”

  The last thing he sees is Ricky’s blank face before he slams the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm really sorry about the spotty updates! Also, this chapter IS a tad shorter than the others, because I don't have a ton of time right now, but I got accomplished with it what I wanted to.   
> As always, thank you for reading, liking, and commenting!!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley heads back into town, determined to undermine Goldsworth's stolen power any way he can by discovering more about the city itself - but the conclusion he finds isn't one he's eager to hear.

  Tinsley is on fire as he flings open the main door of the Mayor’s office ( _Mayor,_ he thinks bitterly, resisting the urge to spit the title out, _sure_ ), but the heat outside is no longer the culprit; his face burns red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, flagrant and distinct against his blonde stubble.

   _Ricky Goldsworth…_ he almost looks up at the window - he knows the man is standing at its pane, watching for the detective’s movements below him, and it’s more than enough to set Tinsley off.

  He huffs a lock of hair from his eyes and rips at the tie around his neck; the knot unfurls in his hand, and he grips the lank fabric in his fist, forcing a deep breath into his lungs as he stands at the top of the staircase, his gaze sweeping the town before him. Goldsworth can stop him in the Mayor’s office, but he has no control of the town itself - yet.

  And ‘yet’ is all the determination Tinsley needs.

  He sets off down the stairs and past the library, careful not to turn towards it, not until later; he feels a knot in his stomach when his mind flips back to Ricky’s face as he asked about Odette -  “ _Was it the library girl_?” - and he’s far from willing to make the cheerful woman a target of Ricky’s. The last thing he wants is to understand the man’s capabilities via tragedy.

  Dust kicks up with his heels, rising to his chin and filling his lungs with every breath likewise, and Tinsley abandons any semblance of method as he walks up to the first door after the library; it’s pale wood with a small, worn spot just below the empty hole where he assumes the peephole should have gone (or used to be). He raises a fist and raps it against the spot without so much as a second of hesitation. A flurry of footsteps pound towards the door from the other side, and before Tinsley can blink, the man with the tortoiseshell glasses from earlier stands before him, his small eyes wide behind round frames. A single brow quirks up on his face.

  “Oh,” he says simply - his voice is an brittle mixture of tones that Tinsley can’t quite differentiate, confusion and shock and a natural droop melded together to form the sounds that came from the man’s mouth, and Tinsley is almost shocked that his lips aren’t fused into a permanent frown. “Hullo. Can I help you?”

  Tinsley forces a smile on his face, hoping his cheeks have cooled in the last few minutes. “Yes! So sorry to bother you, but I’m new in town, and I was just wondering if perhaps I could look around your lovely establishment? I’m really trying to get to know the buildings around here.”

  The man watches him, his eyes devoid of suspicion or wariness - they’re a soft gray, and though they sparkle with utter confusion, he raises his eyebrows after a second and nods. “Of course,” he says finally, his tongue darting from between his lips to lick them, and he steps aside to let Tinsley through with a second timid nod and a shadow of a smile.

  Tinsley looks around what appears to be the lobby as he steps through the door; the dark painting he saw through the window as he passed earlier hangs prim above the desk in front of him, and a tiny bowl of cellophane-wrapped candies, not unlike the ones by Odette’s armchairs in the library, sits below it, though nearly empty. Tinsley spots a small mountain of their discarded wrappers in a trashcan near his feet.

 The door clicks shut behind him - he glances over his shoulder and quirks his head to the side as the man behind him twists the doorknob halfway three times, retracts his arm, and shoots out his hand to repeat the process before he stops himself, turning instead to the bowl of candy on the desk and occupying his twitching fingers with the crinkling wrapper as he turns to face Tinsley.

  “This is _Banjo’s_ ,” he starts, his voice a soft warble, “the- uh, the motel, that is. _Banjo’s_ , the one down the street, near the train station, that one’s a, uh, a bar, I believe.” Tinsley nods attentively - he finds no reason to interrupt the man, even if he knows about Madge’s business already. “We - well, here, anyway - we maintain and rent out rooms to the people of the town, i-if they need it, of course- there are some lovely homes down this block- well, there’s only one block, the whole town is the block, but you probably know that already-” He cuts himself off, chewing on his cheek with his gaze trained carefully on the floor, and he pops the candy in his mouth as he offers Tinsley an apologetic smile (though it translates more as a grimace, but the heart is there).

  “Sorry,” he says - his eyes trace the air as he seems to search for the second half of the apology, but Tinsley just beams at him.

  “No need to apologize,” he responds brightly, placing his hands on his hips and glancing around the foyer with twinkling eyes. “This is a very lovely place, Mr… eh-”

  “McKenzie,” the man supplies, his lips finally quirking into a smile as Tinsley’s grin broadens. “Simon McKenzie.”

  Tinsley extends a hand towards Simon, and, when he makes no move to shake it, quickly lowers it and offers the man a nod instead. “Mr. McKenzie, wonderful! Now, I do wonder, who exactly is _we_?”

 Simon’s smile falters. “...I’m sorry?”

  “You said _‘we_ maintain’ - I was just wondering if perhaps you have a partner in crime, so to speak?”

  “Oh,” he says again. His eyes crinkle up, and his face breaks out into a bright grin so suddenly that Tinsley almost stumbles back. “Oh, did I- no, no partner, not necessarily, but- oh, hold on!” And he runs off, through the door behind the desk, slamming it shut behind him and leaving Tinsley speechless in the lobby. The detective hums a laugh to himself after a moment, until he realizes something odd: the air in the motel is cool.

  It’s not quite air-conditioned - not fully, anyway - but a chill snakes down Tinsley’s spine, and it strikes him as odd that only one building in the town seems to have an semblance of temperature control (not that he’s complaining). He glances around, his eyes tracing the ceiling and walls for pipes or the unit itself, but before he can find anything, a door opens behind him.

  Tinsley’s gaze snaps to the door Simon disappeared behind, only to find it still untouched - he slowly turns to the other corner of the lobby where one last doorway stands, presumably to the rooms of the motel.

  A woman stands wide-eyed in the doorframe. Her skin is pale, her cheeks hollow, and she carries a small child on her knobby hip; they’re both draped in faded, flowery fabric, although the little girl’s dress seems to be more burlap than the rough cotton of the woman’s outfit. The woman - who he presumes is the young girl’s mother, or grandmother - watches him with a gaze that should read as alert, but despite their size, her eyes are blank . The little girl just tilts her head at Tinsley.

  “Hello,” he says, only after the silence in the room seems to close in on him, surrounding his throat and pushing out the only word his brain can manufacture in the moment.

  Neither girl responds. The woman’s mouth tightens to a straight line, and she, too, cocks her head to the side, mirroring her daughter with startling similarity. It occurs to Tinsley suddenly that the child has no shoes.

  He clears his throat. “Lovely evening,” he tries, pasting a small, warm smile on his face for the pair, almost as a peace offering - it seems to work, as the little girl’s lips quirk into a crooked grin. “Mr. McKenzie should be back any moment, if that’s your concern.”

  Another chill wracks his spine and he shivers; the woman flinches, taking a step back through the door, but the emptiness remains in her inky irises. She stares at Tinsley from across the room, her gaze never moving from his, and he once again wishes for his trenchcoat - it comes in rather handy for situations in which his very soul is being scrutinized by the gaze of a mysterious woman with empty eyes. (He imagines it would, anyway. He can’t say he’s had experience with the situation prior.)

  He opens his mouth to try once more at conversation just as the door beside him slams open.

  Tinsley jumps back as the door cries on its hinges; he’s reminded of the trinket shop from earlier, of his close call with a wooden kiss, and he’s less than excited to recreate the experience.

  “Here she is!” Simon’s voice bubbles from the other side, practically a shout from the timid man. Tinsley sidesteps the door itself and finds the man beaming, his arms cradled under a panting golden retriever with bright, gleaming eyes, its tongue lolling out of a smiling mouth.

  “Her name is Matilda,” Simon continues excitedly, his eyes alight with a sparkling joy that transforms his entire face. “You can call her Tilly, if you’d like- if you’re to come around here again, of course, but also if you don’t and you just see her again- I walk her every day, just up and down the- well, the town, but you know what I mean, surely-” Matilda cuts him off with a strident bark, and Simon laughs.

  “She’s my best friend,” he continues after a second. He glances down at the pup, his face splitting into a grin. “My partner in crime.”

  Tinsley smiles with him - it’s hard _not_ to, for Christ’s sake - and glances over his shoulder to see if the pair at the doorway have brightened any, but they’re not there. He takes a step back and peeks through the open door; it leads to a short hallway, each side indented with four doors that, in some point in their existence, were probably white, but now stand a patchy gray against pale brown carpet that’s littered with dust and flakes of something Tinsley can’t identify.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” he trails off, staring at the hall with glittering eyes, “could I oh-so-possibly have a quick tour?”

  Simon follows his gaze and wrinkles his nose, just a little bit. “I… don’t see why not.”

  Tinsley forces himself to stay in his spot until Simon passes him - his heart hammers in his chest, and save for the time he punched a letter carrier (it’s a long story that he’s not keen on relaying until he’s on his deathbed), his heart is always right in its excitement. He finally follows after Simon, who still cradles his dog in his spindly arms, and strides into the second half of the motel.

  The hallway is heavy with the scent of copper and mildew; the air curls around Tinsley, filling his lungs within a single breath and forcing his throat into the acquiescence of a guttural cough - Simon seems unaffected, glancing blankly back at the detective, his mouth scrunched to the side. It occurs to Tinsley quite starkly that the place is _small._

  He’s always been rather… _aware_ of his height, especially when he surpassed his classmates for the first time in third grade after being the shortest for four years prior, but the low ceiling of the motel nearly grazes his blonde head, and he finds himself hunching over to Simon’s height, nearly six inches below his own. That wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, of course, except for the fact that his spine aches within a minute of walking down the first hall - and there is more than one hall. Simon leads him to the end of the first without opening any doors and turns left without a single word, once again leaving his guest in a mist of confusion.

  Tinsley turns briefly to glance back from where he came, and meets the eyes of the little girl, now without her mother (or grandmother - he still hasn’t decided). Her red hair is frizzy and tangled, her feet still bare despite their redness; she stares at him with dead, deep-set eyes as she stands alone in the middle of the hall, and Tinsley watches her hand unfurl at her side, watches the single, tiny object drop from her palm and onto the carpeted floor. She turns from him and trudges back into the lobby.

  He waits for her bright hair to disappear through the door before he strides to her spot, scooping the object from the carpet’s unyielding fibers. He turns it over in his hands - it’s a wedding ring, small and dinged but sparkling under the sparse lighting of the hall; it’s sprinkled with diamonds (Tinsley is no jeweler, but even he can tell when a diamond is real, and these are no fakers). He pinches it between his fingers and looks through its band at the door the girl vanished behind, before realizing Simon has since abandoned him in his spot.

  Just as Tinsley trails past the last door before the corner, he sees a pair of small, beaten shoes abandoned at its base.

 

  The sky is painted cobalt blue by the time he walks out of the motel.

  Tinsley waves goodbye to Simon with a grin on his face that melts the second the door closes; he stares at the front of _Banjo’s_ , his eyes flickering across the faded letters - the holes in their curves are devoid of birds’ nests, barren of life. Empty. His chest feels hollow at the sight.

   _A door open._

He looks up at the sky again, eager to fill his eyes with something more than nothingness.

   _He looked in, just for a second - curiosity killed the cat, and C.C. Tinsley was always ready to sacrifice one life of nine._

The stars dot the sky like freckles, glittering across an ultramarine canvas with a vivacity he’d rarely seen in West Virginia.

   _Inside the room was a rickety bed, a small table, a worn couch, and a group of people situated sporadically across the floor. There was a girl with blunt-cut blonde hair and icy blue eyes, her head leaned back against the wall, her legs splayed out in front of her across the bed; the boy on the floor near the bed had a bruise across his cheekbone and a deep, puckered scar on his temple, right under the greasy black fringe across his forehead, his eyes tightly closed; another girl, younger than the others for sure, with ebony skin and dead eyes, missing her right thumb; an old man with sparse gray hair across his head and face, his round eyes underlined with aubergine half-moons._

The air is snug against his arms, a warmth he finally welcomes after the sudden chill of the motel. His mind flits idly to the image of his coat still resting on one of Madge’s chairs.

   _“Tilly doesn’t like the heat,” Simon told him over his shoulder, seemingly unfazed by the beaten-down ragtag group to their left. Tinsley was left staring into their room, only falling from his thoughts when the girl with blue eyes snapped her gaze to his - not quite empty, not like the other in her group, not like the mother and daughter, but close._

Tinsley glances again into the window - there’s no one there, but he feels eyes on him, perhaps from another window, another building; perhaps it’s just a remnant of the last hour.

   _Another door cracked open for him to glimpse through; this time, a man sitting blankly before a suitcase, his hands clasped beneath his chin as he stared at its contents - a few shirts, a pair of pants, and a notebook. His eyes were turned down at the edges, lines etched into his face like crumbling marble. He didn’t look to Tinsley, but he reached over and pushed the door shut._

 He starts his walk to Madge’s, hand in his pockets and back facing the motel, his mind racing.

   _Every door that opened told a brief story of nothingness. Simon never waved to the occupants of the rooms, just kept walking; Tinsley couldn’t tell if it was deliberate avoidance or a soft gift of privacy, of quiet grievance for whatever these people had lost or simply never found._

  The lights are off in the bar when he walks in; it almost feels wrong not to see Madge at the counter or one of the tables, and Tinsley quite honestly has to remind himself that he’s only been in Banjo for a day, so who is he to say what looks wrong or right? (Perhaps that’s just existential dread speaking, but he listens to it nonetheless.)

   Treading gently across the floor, he makes it to the stairs with minimal creaking, and starts up the narrow steps, his hand tracing the wall; when he makes it to the top, the scent of cinnamon and honey streams past him, filling his lungs and expelling the lingering mildew smell from his sinuses. He follows it to the kitchen and spots Madge at the tiny island, a steaming mug in her hands.   

  “Charles,” she says, nodding to him. It’s only one word, but the look in her eyes is as warm as the kitchen itself. “I didn’t know when you’d be gettin’ back, but I made you a cup, on the counter there. It’s just warm milk and honey with some cinnamon and nutmeg. Helps me sleep,” she adds after a moment, taking a sip of the concoction as she nods to the copper mug across the counter top. Tinsley offers her a small smile, the best he can conjure at the moment, and sits down before it.

  Neither of the two speak for a bit - it’s a silence Tinsley rather enjoys, simple and unassuming with a branch of quiet understanding beneath it.

  “Madge,” he says suddenly, before he can really stop himself. Madge glances to him with raised eyebrows. “Did you grow up here?”

  Madge stops.

  Her mug stays frozen in her hand, hovering just above the tabletop as she stares at him, those hazel eyes boring into his soul; she doesn’t answer immediately, nor does she answer in the timespan that follows immediately, whose word seems to escape Tinsley as his very soul is once more being examined while he waits in the silence of a query.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathes a second later, when his own words catch up to him, “That was- that was rude of me, I shouldn’t have asked so soon- or at all, actually, I-”

  “Charles.” His mouth snaps shut. “It’s fine. I’m just not real used to askin’ questions, or bein’ asked, really.” She gives a small smile, and he notices she has a dimple on only one cheek. “Though, I guess with you in the house, I should get used to it real soon.” He can’t help but crack a grin back at her.

  She finally sets her mug down and gives a heavy sigh, lacing her fingers together beside it, her eyes trained on the pale wooden countertop. “I moved here with my husband a long, long time ago,” she starts simply, “just after Oliver was born.”

  The name runs through Tinsley’s head, striking an odd chord with his memory, but he lets her continue.

  “My husband…” Madge trails off as her eyes find the walls with a faraway look; her fingers tighten around themselves. “He’s gone. Although I’m sure you can tell that, Mr. Private eye,” she winks, but her smile has all but faded completely. Tinsley leans forward, his own mouth tilted to a frown as she clears her throat. “Anyway, I didn’t wanna move here - I liked the cold up in Maine, and a new baby made a move harder - but he insisted, and I… well, I loved him, and I was ready to do what made him happy, so we came here, to Arizona.” She stiffens in her seat. “We came to Banjo.

   “It wasn’t Banjo at the time, obviously,” she quips - Tinsley squints at that, his thoughts hurdling to make sense of it, but Madge is on a different plane as she speaks, missing his bout of perplexion completely. “But it was still a woody old neighborhood, and even though I wasn’t a fan, Wilford - that’s my husband - seemed content; Oliver was- _has_ always been my biggest concern, so I got used to it real quick.”

  She picks her mug up once more and takes another sip. Tinsley’s fingers drum across the tabletop to the beat of his bouncing heart - he did love a backstory every now and then - but his head is heavy with questions more than answers as he watches her rise from the island, her story lingering in the air as an unfinished promise.

  “Charles,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “I’m not one to ask questions myself, so I can’t guess any answers you have in that noggin’ of yours, but lemme tell you something I wish Will had told me.” She meets his gaze with a determined glint that makes him think so strongly of his mother that his eyes sting with tears, and says, “Don’t let yourself get used to it.”

   And she disappears around the corner.

  A moment later, he hears a door open and fall shut, but he’s far too preoccupied to pay mind to it; her advice brings to his mind Simon’s tour, to the empty eyes of all the motel's inhabitants, their open doors each telling a story of forced hopelessness and barren rooms, barren expressions. The image of the man with the suitcase imprints itself on the inside of his eyelids, from his stained button-down shirt to the notebook in his meager luggage, heavy with loose paper and taped-on notes across its cover.

  Tinsley’s chest fills with gratitude towards Madge for the room down the hall with his own luggage on the bed…

  ...But he can’t help feeling like he’s headed for a rickety couch and eyes full of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK. I started at a stressful time, just like when I ended, but I'm really gonna try to update more in the time coming! Sorry it's taken so long, but this chapter is around 3,500 words, so I hope it kinda makes up for it a little?


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